Shifting (23 page)

32

I jumped out of bed and pulled some jeans on beneath my T-shirt, slipped my feet into Kat's old flip-flops, and ran into the barn. The chickens flapped their wings at the sight of me and scampered to the far end of the coop.

“Mrs. Carpenter?” I called as I darted past them and out of the barn. Sprinting to the house, I leaped up the steps to the front porch. Shash came with me, whining, ears flat and tail wagging.

“Mrs. Carpenter!” I yelled, twisting the doorknob. It was locked, and in my panic I hadn't brought my house key. The curtains were drawn and the house appeared to be deserted, but her truck was in the driveway. I pounded on the front door with my fist, then leaned on the doorbell, pushing the button over and over again. She didn't answer. Five minutes must have passed, with me pounding on the freshly painted front door until my knuckles were bruised.

I jumped down the porch steps but paused before I'd taken two steps. Something was missing. “No,” I muttered, shaking my head and wondering if I'd gone officially insane. I squeezed my eyes shut so hard my head started to hurt, then opened them for another look. The animal skulls—the ring of protection I'd put around her house the night before—were gone.

Sick to my stomach, I ran around back and gasped. A tall, gleaming white mound of animal skulls had been piled beside the back door. All around the pile, the damp ground had been scratched up, the weeds pounded down flat.

I tried the back door, desperate to get in. It was locked, too.

“Mrs. Carpenter!” I yelled, cupping my hands around my mouth. The wind answered me, howling through the junipers and whispering past the animal skulls. If I wanted to get into the house, my house key was my only hope. Turning from the back door, I started sprinting toward the barn, but a crunching sensation beneath my flip-flops made me stop.

I stared down at the ground and wiggled my feet. Shards of glass shimmered in the weeds. I looked at the house. The window to my old bedroom was gone. Only a few fragments of glass clung to the frame. Attached to one of the shards was a clump of yellow fur.

I grabbed a fist-sized rock from the ground and hacked away the jagged glass remnants, then climbed through the broken window. Shash leaped through behind me and trotted into the house.

My feet crunched on more glass. Mrs. Carpenter's bed was trashed, with springs sticking out of the bare mattress. The bedroom door had been scratched to bits and hung lopsided on its hinges, the door frame splintered. Searching the room for a weapon, I gripped the toppled bedside lamp and yanked the plug from the wall. Holding the lamp as if it were a club, I stepped through the busted door frame.

Only the sounds of the wind and the grandfather clock filled the house. I crept down the hall and past the kitchen, my flip-flops silent on the wood floor. As I entered the living room, I paused and held my free hand up, as if catching rain. Tiny white particles settled onto it, like ash from a campfire. White dust floated through the air, trickling downward. It coated the wood floor and furniture. I glanced up and frowned. In the middle of the ceiling was a gaping hole.

I took two steps forward and pressed a hand over my mouth. My body began to convulse uncontrollably. Somehow I managed to stay standing, though my knees were knocking together.

Below the gun case lay Duke, his lifeless body grotesquely twisted, bare patches of bloody skin visible where the copper fur had been torn from flesh. Beside him lay Mrs. Carpenter, face ashen, eyes closed, a rifle in her hands. She looked like a pile of skin, bones, and clothes. Shash lay at her side, his head between his massive paws, and looked up at me with pleading eyes.

“Mrs. Carpenter?” My voice was as shaky as my legs. She didn't move. “Please don't be dead,” I whispered. Steeling myself for reality, I crossed the room and knelt at her side.

Her skin was cool beneath my touch, but not cold. “Mrs. Carpenter?” I said, patting her creased cheeks. Her eyelids fluttered open and she hugged the gun to her chest. Her lips moved, but I couldn't hear what she said.

I leaned closer, put my ear by her mouth, and waited. A spasm racked her body and she moaned. I climbed to my rubbery legs, crossed the room to the desk, and dialed 911.

After giving the operator the address, I hung up the phone and sat by Mrs. Carpenter again, brushing her tangled hair away from her face. “An ambulance is coming,” I whispered, hardly able to talk over the knot in my throat.

She opened her eyes and looked at me again. Her icy hand found mine and squeezed it. “Ring. Broken.” She moaned and closed her eyes again. “Shot the ceiling to get your attention,” she mumbled. I looked up at the hole in the ceiling and tears found their way to my eyes. I had been so caught up in my own fear and misery, I had completely let her down. The weight pressing down on my shoulders made it hard to keep my head up.

“I'm so sorry,” I said. “I never heard a thing from the barn.”

Sirens blared outside and car doors slammed. I unlocked the front door and opened it. Shash jumped to his feet, growled deep in his throat, and started barking. Before I could stop him, he sprinted out the door and disappeared, his crazed bark fading the farther he got from the house.

“Shash!” I called as two paramedics and a police officer came into the house. Shash didn't come back.

I stood with my back against the wall and watched as the paramedics examined Mrs. Carpenter.

“She's dehydrated and her hip is broken,” one said. They put an IV into her arm and moved her broken body onto a stretcher. I plugged my ears to block out her feeble scream. Even muted, it was my undoing.

With my arms wrapped around my chest, I stood on the front porch long minutes after the ambulance had driven away.

“Are you all right, ma'am?” Officer Dahl asked me again. It was at least the fifth time he had asked.

Am I all right?
I wondered. I hadn't been all right for days.

“Ma'am?”

“Yes, I'm fine,” I lied, sniffling.

“You know, a lot of elderly women break their hips. It's the most common injury women suffer after the age of sixty. After a few months in a cast, she'll be fine,” Dahl said, patting my shoulder. He probably had kids about my age. “Funny old woman. She called the station last night and said the
ring of protection
had been broken and a pack of cougars was trying to get into her house. Does she suffer from dementia?”

I sank down and sat heavily on the porch step. I thought if I left Mrs. Carpenter alone, so would they. I thought moving the skulls to create a new ring of protection around her house would be a good thing. Obviously I destroyed any power the ring had by altering it. A fresh sob ripped at my chest. In addition to the tigers I'd killed, I was now responsible for the death of Duke and for Mrs. Carpenter's broken hip. I pressed the balls of my hands over my eyes. If I didn't figure out what was going on, who else would get hurt? I needed someone to talk to. Someone who wouldn't judge me. I needed Bridger. He
had
to sense my overwhelming misery. Obviously he didn't care enough to come.

I went back inside, picked up the phone, and dialed a number I'd had memorized for a long time. He answered on the third ring, his voice as familiar as my own. “Hello, Mr. Petersen? It's Maggie Mae,” I said, my voice wavering with the effort of holding back a sob.

“Maggie Mae? You only call me when you're in trouble. What's wrong? Another indecent exposure?” he asked. If only it were that simple.

“No. It's Mrs. Carpenter. She fell and broke her hip. She's at the hospital, but I'm worried about her.”

There was a moment of silence. “I'll be at the hospital in three hours.” He hung up without saying good-bye.

I wiped the tears from my cheeks and went back to the porch. Staring at the foliage around Mrs. Carpenter's property, I let anger fill me. When my blood was at the boiling point, I whispered through gritted teeth, “I'm all alone now. Come and get me.” As if something out there heard, a low, distant howl echoed through the air.

Oh, crap,
I thought, clutching my suddenly roiling stomach.
Now I've done it.

Officer Dahl blinked at me and cleared his throat. “Are you sure you're all right?”

“Never been better. Can I go now?” I asked. Panic was setting in, making me too hot, making my skin clammy and my stomach churn. I wanted desperately to be alone before I started hyperventilating.

“I just need you to sign some paperwork,” Dahl said, going to his patrol car for a clipboard.

I signed the papers, though my signature was illegible.

With my arms hugging my stomach, I walked stiffly through the muddy yard and back to the barn apartment.

No matter how I tried to calm down, I felt as if the air were growing denser and denser, and no matter that I was gasping it in, I couldn't breathe. Opening my bedroom window, I gulped in a lungful of fresh air.

I fell onto my bed and tried to relax every muscle in my body, tried to become the bed. While my body gave in to relaxation, my mind refused. A name kept assailing my thoughts.

Rolf Heinrich.

Obviously he had been looking for me for a while. He was the man Jenny Sue warned me about after I'd moved to Silver City. And I was pretty sure I knew why he wanted me, well, before he'd died: my second nature.

But how did he know about it? How had he found me? And why the freak did an entire group of animals—some of them, if not all of them also human—want me dead? I was nothing! No one special! Actually, that wasn't true. I was nothing and no one
important
—had been my whole life. But special? I could turn into an animal at will.

I was beyond special.

I lay on my bed with my hands behind my head, feeling seconds scrape slowly into minutes, waiting for the minutes to pile into hours, waiting for the hour when they would come for me. Because I knew they were coming.

I don't recall feeling sleepy—I was exhausted, but not sleepy—when a noise jerked me awake. A twinkling of stars spattered the small patch of sky I could see through my open window.

I sat up, perched upon the edge of the mattress, and listened. Coyotes were about, yipping and barking. I jumped off the bed and ran to the window, sliding it quietly shut and locking it.

In darkness I stood and listened, peering down at the shadowed ground, searching for anything that would warn me, would confirm my suspicions that the hour had arrived.

Shadows moved below my window, shapes darting to and fro, both low to the ground and standing tall. A howl bellowed through the night and I jumped.

I inched closer to the window and placed my palms against the cool glass. An inky black face appeared, peering right into my eyes. A gray beak gleamed in that horrible face and a hiss penetrated through the glass. I fell backward, scooting away from the window, my fist pressed into my mouth to hold in a scream. Earlier that day, I thought I wanted them to come for me—wanted it all to end. But now I was too terrified to face them.

I don't know how my panicked brain could register anything besides fear, but it did. My blood ran cold as a thought occurred to me. When I had come back to my room after finding Mrs. Carpenter, I had not locked the exterior barn door.

I jumped to my feet and sprinted out of my room. The barn was pitch black, darker, even, than my bedroom had been. The chickens were restless, clucking and flapping their wings. I slowed and felt my way down the steps.

Shapes—distorted and hunched and blacker than the blackness—filled all the corners of the barn. I prayed they were shadows or my eyes playing tricks on me, yet they seemed to move when I caught them in my peripheral vision. Then something did move. A long shaft of charcoal turned to a rectangle of gray as the barn door eased open. A bulky darkness stepped through and the door shut.

I could just make out the darker shape in the barn, floating toward the stairs leading up to my bedroom. The whispery sound of footfalls mingled with the chicken noises. I scuttled toward the other side of the barn.

Crouched low to the ground, I watched the shadow's progress, watched as it climbed the stairs and made it to the entrance of my bedroom, about to enter, about to give me the chance to bolt for the outside door. But it stopped, a black human shape silhouetted in the rectangular door frame. And then, as if this shape knew exactly where I was, it turned toward me.

The creature came down the stairs, strode right to my hiding place, and grabbed my hair.

I didn't scream. I couldn't breathe! My arms lashed out, scratching and clawing with nails on the brink of turning into razor-sharp claws. But then I recognized the smell of the person trying so desperately to ward off my feeble scratching without hurting me.

“Maggie! Stop it!” he hissed, clutching both my wrists in one of his hands.

“Bridger?” I whimpered.

“Shh. Yes, it's me.”

I pulled my hands away from his grasp and threw my arms around him, burying my face against his bare chest. His arms encircled me with warmth and for a split second I felt safe. Until I realized Bridger was now likely to be added to my growing list of dead and injured people. My body stiffened in his arms.

“You're terrified,” he stated in a whisper so soft I might have imagined it. “I'm sorry. We have to get away from here. Now. Can you walk?”

“No! You can't be here. You—” His finger was on my lips, silencing me.

“Do not make another noise.” His voice was hardly louder than an exhaled breath.

I pulled his finger off my lips. “But they're going to kill—”

His palm clamped down on my mouth and his arm wrapped around my waist, pulling my back against his chest. Lips pressed against my ear. “You have to trust me. Now. Shut. Up.”

I nodded and his hand left my mouth. Taking my hand in his, he led me to the barn door.

He opened the door a hair and moonlight poured in, illuminating Bridger's face, gleaming off his dark hair and bare chest, and reflecting on something long and shiny in his hand. A big, silver gun. I froze.